[IC] [ dead prairie ]

[Carlyle]

_{Hvass, Illinois}

7:34 AM, CST

---

^{The Hansen Residence}

"Tomorrow's Thanksgiving, huh?" Sarah Hansen spoke between munches of a granola bar breakfast, crossing off another November day on the family calendar.

Sarah had always been indifferent towards the idea of Thanksgiving. Were it any other year, she'd been happy just to be out of school for a few days. No more studying, no more pop quizzes or homework—it was a time for lazing around and eating lots of turkey. But this wasn't a normal year. Not anymore, at least. Now, she had a reason to be thankful this holiday: that she was glad to still be alive and not one of those monsters.

"Don't think anyone is going to be in a celebrating mood, though." She continued, tossing the granola wrapper in the trash. "Or that Søgaard and his appointed council would want to waste food."

Walking over to the "front door" of their apartment, Sarah walked downstairs and into Hansen Furniture proper, waving to a few familiar faces that waved a "morning" her way. Although it had been just over a month since the Great Fog had arrived, she still hadn't grown used to the fact that people were now living in her family's furniture store. "Like waking up to strangers living inside your home", Sarah once described to a friend of hers, even though most living inside hadn't been strangers at all. Save for a few, most had been prior customers of the store, family friends or names tied to Hvass somehow.

Problem was, though, the person she needed to talk to was neither any of that. To Sarah, the person she was slated to work with today was a bona fide stranger, and only God seemed to know where this person was.

"Is there an Amber Something-brook here?" She asked, scanning the crowd once again. Maybe she had been placed in another shelter, like the church? "We're supposed to head to the diner today to go count rations, supplies and stuff."

[Lemons]

---

It made sense that Sarah couldn't find who she was looking for, as the young woman in question was leaning against the wall in the corner, the slump reducing her height even further. Combined with the crowd, it made her nearly invisible. And she was just fine with that. She hated the crowds. She missed her solitary apartment, with its blessed silence and isolation. But that simply wasn't viable anymore, not without resigning herself to a terrible fate as either Fogged or dead, and everybody knew it. There was safety in numbers. Even if she hated how high those numbers were. Another consequence of the Great Fog to add to the ever-swelling pile, though a comparatively minor one. She did her best to hide herself in her beaten-to-hell coat.

As reclusive as she was and as reclusive as she remained, though, she'd made a few acquaintances since then. As much as she hated attention, she was still a human being. She needed some kind of companionship. And, she had to keep reminding herself, she deserved it too, just like everybody else did.

The person who'd called her name, though, was not one of them. Evidenced by the butchery of her name. But she would take any excuse to get out of the press of people without putting herself in undue danger. So upon hearing her name called by—what was her name again? Sara? Sabine?—she straightened up, standing on her tiptoes and raising a hand to be seen through the people. "Amber Westbrook. That's me." She shouldered her way up to the other girl, standing as tall as she could so she didn't need to crane her neck to meet her eyes. She laced her fingers together nervously behind her back, linking her hands inside of her warm long sleeves as she bit her lip anxiously.

A sudden, half-formed insult born of poorly-contained stress leapt unbidden to her mind, and she had to bite her tongue instead to keep it down. She did her best to keep the flash of frustration off of her face. Christ, you don't even know her. What is wrong with you? Cool your jets, dumbass.

[Tally Dor]

Steven grumbled to himself as he wiped sweat from his brow. It was so early the sun had barely climbed over the horizon and yet him and a handful of other men had been forced to take yet another heavy oak pew from inside the church and were in the process of using it to stabilize and fortify a hole in the wall. It had been another sleepless night as the survivors huddled together in the church, with the constant pounding and raking of claws on the heavy door of the church. They endured and when morning began to brighten up the sky, they had went out the side entrance with a torch and chased the fallen human back out the hole it had gotten in through.

Steven hated his new status quo. He had been dreadfully sober for far longer then he liked. He just wanted something to take the edge off. Once the hole had been successfully blocked by the pew and reinforced with more wood, Steven told Father Martin he would take guard duty. The elderly minister nodded his head and readjusted his glasses as he slowly walked back to the church. Father Martin was the leader here at the church and he had done a good job in leading his flock as he called them. Steven climbed on top of a old Yukon Denali that had been driven up against the wall as a raised platform and sat on top of the roof looking out adjusting the metal bat across his lap. He was seeing some of the shapes moving about in the fog, but his eyes did not linger there as they drifted out towards Derby street or more specifically where his house was. He could not see it but he knew it was out there.

Steven licked his lips thinking about the half finished twelve pack that was surely still sitting on his kitchen table. He propped his elbow on the wall and leaned on his palm. Being sober was so boring and it made sleep so much harder. Least guard duty was usually pretty boring as the damned tended to for the most part fuck off to dark places. Only some would shamble about the streets and as long as he didn't make his presence known, they weren't smart enough to look up and see him.

[Rekker]

Location: 13 Thurston St., Roof > Hansen Furniture Store | Interactions: Open | Theme: We Will Become Silhouettes

When the sun hid itself over the horizon, the cage doors slammed shut and Maddox found himself trapped in close quarters with whomever he decided to hole up with on a given night. He hated it. Claustrophobia led to discomfort, which fed irritability. He could be stuck with a friend and, by the time the sun returned, he could find himself hating that person, entertaining thoughts of mild violence against them. The trick was to close your eyes, when you could, and meditate... endure.

As soon as the sun crept up, Maddox was outside without fail. The thought of monstrous remnant still lingering about the neighborhood was something that concerned him far less than the enclosure. He was fast, resourceful. If a situation did arise with one of the creatures, he trusted he could figure a way out of it.

This morning was no different than any other. As soon as the sky went from black to blue, Maddox had emerged from the second story window of his home and scaled his roof, sitting at its peak and surveying as much as he could of the subdivision. He couldn't make out the exact words being spoken, but he could hear his parents talking down below from within the boarded up house, no doubt discussing plans and chores for the day.

His mother, bound to a wheelchair, was almost always be assigned with domestic house keeping duties and meal preparations. His father was more the hunter/gatherer of food and supplies. Maddox, however, usually chose to abstain from a formal role within their little tribe. He would rather be independent and nomadic. If he was hungry, he'd find his own food. If he needed something, he'd find it himself or barter with someone from town. In a world that had suddenly become very complicated, he found solace in the simplicity of being responsible only for himself.

He softly closed his eyes and took in a long, slow breath before releasing it out of his nostrils. The air was humid, as always, but still enriching. One brain cell after another, Maddox's consciousness was emerging front and center as he allowed himself to fully wake up and meet the day.

After a few moments more, he pulled himself to his feet and traversed the house before exiting out of the garage. Now with a bicycle in tow, he pulled the garage door shut and hopped on. This was one of the more exciting parts of his daytime activities: The headcount. It was time to ride into town to see who all survived. A lot of people were taking shelter in the local church and within some stores. Those would be his first stops.

+-+-+-+

"Bring out your dead!" Maddox called out, comically quoting a Monty Python sketch while pumping his pedals. It wasn't the first time he had done this and, yet, he was just as elated with his own wit as if it were. Hensen Furniture store was starting to come into view so he repeated himself, even louder, with a crooked grin plastered on his face. "BRING OUT YOUR DEAD!"

As people were beginning to venture outside, he braked the bike and straddled it, propping his elbows up on the handlebars as he cradled his chin in his hands, attempting to look adorable as one would on a school picture day. "Good morning," he started with a bit of cheer. "Did the portions of rations get bigger overnight?" An insensitive way of asking if there were less mouths to feed now.

[RickyG85]

Willis was packing up his tools. It was early in the day, but with the emergency situation they'd had in the night, he'd had to start early.

He looked back at the wall as they were finishing patching up the hole, shaking his head. He'd have to talk with... Whoever was in charge, about putting his skills and knowledge to better use. The walls were set very quickly, hastily, sloppily. How else did one of those... Things punch a whole big enough to get through? Maybe they could rebuild, and reinforce the walls in segments? Something more permanent...

as he was checking how much propane he had left in his torch (mostly just shaking it, and approximating how much remained), he heard someone shouting! His expression went from concerned to annoyed as the meaning of the words registered in his mind. He heaved a sigh, shaking his head again, "...That kid..."

Slinging his tool bag over his shoulder, he walked toward the young man, "Well, good morning, Maddox! Anybody ever tell you how funny you are?" He made sure he put as much sarcasm into the question as possible, while wearing a scowl of disapproval. He gestured to the newly patched breach in the wall, "And if somebody said 'yes', I suppose you'd have a laugh over that, too?"

[Carlyle]

_{Hvass, Illinois}

7:34 AM, CST

---

^{Main Street — @TGM}

Mark Hansen leaned against an aging truck, his hands cupping a warm mug of black coffee. To his left and right, a few other Hvassians stood, drinking their own share of the coffee's pot.

He had already been up for a few hours prior, still unable to break the workman habit of an early morning even in the face of the apocalypse. Before, it had simply been to pay off monthly bills; to earn a yearly salary. But now, his morning routine had a greater purpose: to ensure his family's survival. How could they improve the walls? What were they to do about rationing? More importantly, what if the fog came back? Such concerns regularly floated about in the back of his head.

His thoughts harkened back twenty-odd years ago, back to when he was a draftee at the tail-end of the Vietnam War. Some of his experience, he felt, was still applicable, although they weren't dealing with an opposing army nor were they were a trained group of GIs. No, the town of Hvass was dealing with something far, far more dangerous; something he doubted the small rabble left in Hvass could survive. Had Copeland, the local pastor, been here, Mark figured he'd tell him to cast these worries away; to put his faith in God, that He would save them all. But whatever speech Copeland would've had prepared wouldn't have mattered. His faith in a higher power had long since been shaken. For all Mark knew, it seemed God had already cast them into the fires of Hell.

"Bring out your dead! BRING OUT YOUR DEAD!" A cyclist—Maddox, he and the rest of Hvass had recently come to known for his antics—shouted, interrupting Mark's solemn coffee drinking as he rode past the group and towards the crowd now leaving the furniture store. Almost immediately, Mark shook his head in disapproval, like a parent who had just watched his kid do something absolutely stupid.

"Kid's got some screws loose." He commented, taking a sip of his coffee. "One of these days his humor is going to get that smirk knocked off his face by the wrong person."

[Carlyle]

_{Hvass, Illinois}

7:34 AM, CST

---

^{Main Street — @Lemons}

This is who I'm supposed to be working with?

Were it not for other circumstances, namely the Fog and the monsters it left behind, Sarah would've figured everyone in the world had collectively agreed to play a cruel joke on her. Of course, everyone had some sort of trauma these days. It was par for the course of not being murdered by some demon outside on the streets of your hometown. But Amber? She seemed to be a walking, bumbling disaster of a nervous wreck.

And that wasn't even counting the height difference! Despite being much older, Amber must've been at least a foot shorter than Sarah. Not that she minded, of course, but it did feel a tad awkward. Not like a grandparent being all giddy about how tall their grandchild was awkward, but more so just plain awkward.

"Well, Amber—I'm Sarah. Though, you might already know that. My father does have a habit of bringing me up, about how proud he is of me, to all his customers. At least, when this place still had customers."

"As I was saying, we're supposed to head over to the diner for inventory today. I don't think it'll take very long since we'll probably have some help to count cans or whatever." She replied, beginning to walk towards the exit. "So, I guess if you want to follow me, we can be on our way."